


and the world turns (without us)

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Chance Meetings, Extra Treat, Fluff and Humor, Hero/Villain, M/M, Nostalgia, Reunions, Second Chances, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-05-18 14:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: It sounds like the opening line of a joke: A supervillain and a superhero walk into a bar —





	and the world turns (without us)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Burning_Nightingale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/gifts).



> Burning_Nightingale - I was so excited when I saw that you had requested some original ships I'd nominated! I loved your prompts for it, and had so much fun writing this. I hope it's what you were looking for. <3
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful friend S. for the speeding beta and the enthusiastic feedback!

 

It sounds like the opening line of a joke: A supervillain and a superhero walk into a bar — 

Except, it's not really a bar. More like, a fancy artisan coffee shop. And technically, Bobby isn't walking in. He's already sitting at one of the corner tables, staring transfixed at his laptop screen with a half-finished latte and untouched bagel in front of him, when Neil steps into the place.

Neil's neck starts to prickle and his eyes zero in on Bobby, the familiar, well-honed instincts nurtured during all those years of trying to gain the upper hand while going up against each other. But that was a long time ago. Defender has been M.I.A. for months now, temporarily leaving the city defenseless (pun intended) and ripe for the picking – a situation Neil exploited to the full before a new generation of fresh, younger superheroes, with even stupider names and even bigger chips on their ridiculously broad shoulders took over the game. It's the reason Neil is currently sporting a spectacular bruise on the right side of his face, and moving his shoulder hurts. He's getting too old for this shit.

He turns to the barista and orders an Americano, extra strong, and whatever sugary coffee atrocity Bobby's having.

When he slides into the chair opposite Bobby's and sets down a fresh Double Chocolate Latte (with extra sprinkles) in front of him, Bobby looks up from his screen and blinks owlishly at Neil. His startlement makes Neil's lips curl into a taunting smirk. It didn't use to be that easy getting the better of the mighty Defender. 

"Fancy meeting you here." He leans back in his chair and sizes Bobby up. "I thought you were dead. Though considering your terrible situational awareness, I guess it's only a matter of time. I could have killed you a dozen times over by now and you didn't even clock me."

Bobby appears to have recovered sufficiently. He snorts. "'Situational awareness'? Really? This isn't a military operation, Neil. I'm having a coffee. And for the record, I saw you the second you came through the door. I was just ignoring you."

It's impossible to tell whether he's lying or not. He used to be easier to read, back when he was wearing a suit and dodging the bursts of flame Neil threw at him. It seems to be ages ago, even if it's been less than a year. But they'd been going against each other for so long, almost two decades of Defender vs. Fire Starter dominating the headlines of the local papers, that Bobby's sudden disappearance altered the status quo in a way that felt... monumental and world-changing and oddly _wrong_. Nothing has been the same ever since.

So when Neil counters Bobby's comment with, "Well, I guess you've had plenty of practice ignoring me from these last few months, right, Bobby?", it comes out bitter and accusing.

Bobby hears it, too. Of course he does. He raises an eyebrow. "Thought you'd welcome the change of pace. Being able to carry out crime in peace without a guy with super-strength getting in the way sounds like the kind of thing that would make a villain happy. And it's Robert, by the way. We're not twenty-five anymore." He pulls a face.

It's a good thing he's taken offense at the old nickname, because if he hadn't, Neil would actually have to respond to the other thing he said. He'd have to explain that no, thank you, Bobby – _Robert_ can go and stuff his 'change of pace' where the sun don't shine, because Neil has no use for it. He misses the good old days when Defender would inevitably turn up to mess with every one of his plans and they'd throw down in the streets and in bank buildings and mansions and museums and on roof-tops, and sometimes he'd walk away with the score and sometimes he'd wind up empty-handed and nursing bruises – but either way, it was a challenge and exciting and _fun_ , everything that it stopped being the moment Defender suddenly decided to hang up his stupid cape and spend his days sitting in stupid cafés, sipping stupid fancy lattes and typing on his stupid laptop.

"That why you stopped? Starting to feel your age? Too old for superheroing?"

It sounds like a taunt, but Neil is genuinely curious.

For a long moment, Robert just looks at him. Narrowed blue eyes gauge Neil's face with an intensity that makes him uncomfortable, makes him have to force himself not to look away. 

Instead, he returns the appraisal, taking in the changes in the other man's appearance. He still remembers the first time he lifted Defender's mask, back when he thought knowing his nemesis' secret identity would tip the scale in his favor. Robert was so young then. They both were, really, but it's odd, looking at the man opposite him now, taking in the worry lines between his brows, the graying temples and the beard that hides the downward tilt of his mouth, and remembering the boy he used to be, all sparkly-eyed idealism and sunny smiles.

He still looks _good_ , though, in a way Neil never allowed himself to see back in the day. He looks like the kind of guy you meet in artisan coffee shops and flirt with over homemade gluten-free baked goods and overpriced coffee, and the disconnect between who they are and what this feels like aches like someone pressing down against Neil's bruises.

Robert's answer, which Neil almost gave up hoping for, cuts through the uncomfortable twist his thoughts have taken. 

"I stopped because I wasn't doing any good," he says. When Neil opens his mouth to object because, really, Defender used to do nothing _but_ good, annoyingly so, Robert shakes his head. "Not in the long run. Sure, I stopped some crime, put away a few bad guys, saved a bunch of people. But for every attack I stopped, there were five I couldn't. Every time I couldn't save someone, because I was too slow or not strong enough or too busy saving someone else, the papers would have a field day and blame me. For every damn gang I delivered to the police, a new one cropped up. And that's not even counting the ones who simply walked free because they had good lawyers or corrupt judges or who were just too damn good at evading justice." He gives Neil a pointed look.

Neil shrugs, unapologetic. "Always told you, you should come play for the other team. Better pay, more fun, less frustration."

"Right. You look like you're having tons of fun," Robert says, pointing to Neil's face where he knows his bruise is showing in spectacularly shiny colors from the bottom of his eye down to the corner of his mouth.

Neil turns his gaze away and busies himself having a sip of his coffee, hiding his face behind the mug. It tastes bitter, just the way he used to like it, but now he finds himself wishing for something a little smoother and sweeter. "Not as much fun as it used to be since you up and left," he admits. "The new kids, they're not as... sporting as you."

"Meaning they're a lot younger and fitter and kicking your ass?" Robert sounds amused.

Neil waves it off. "Meaning they're holier-than-thou dicks who think they're better just because they wear fucking capes."

"Neil. They're heroes. You're a criminal. They are by definition _better_." Robert's tone isn't unkind, even when the words are.

It sounds odd, Robert laying it out like that, like an irrevocable fact. Neil frowns. "You never let me feel that."

"I was a stupid, foolish kid who thought the world would turn into a good place if we could all just get along." Robert reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and produces a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out. Neil's eyes are drawn to his mouth when he puts the cigarette between his lips, the appealing contrast between soft, rosy lips and the coarse, dark hair of his beard. When he fumbles for his lighter, Neil quickly looks around the room to check if they're being watched and snaps his fingers, a tiny flame dancing at the tip. Despite the hard, forbidding look it earns Neil, Robert still leans across the table and allows Neil to light the cigarette for him. 

He takes a couple of drags from it and blows the smoke up in the air before he says, quietly, "I liked you. You were smart and fun to fight with and you never actually tried to kill me or wipe out the city or rule the world or whatever most of the guys who have your kind of powers usually aim for."

"No one has my kind of powers," Neil counters, because banter comes on instinct and is way easier than reacting to the kind of admission Robert just offered him. 

The corners of Robert's eyes crinkle. "And I always liked your modesty. So humble."

They share a quick smile, conspiratorial and a little wistful, like an old in-joke they only just remembered. Cigarette smoke blurs the air between them, and Neil's coffee has gone cold. 

He clears his throat. "How's retirement treating you, then? Don't you miss running around saving puppies and having all the pretty girls and boys bat their eyes at you asking for an autograph?"

Funny story: One time, before either of them found out what the other looked like beneath the mask, Neil amused himself by mingling with Defender's adoring fans and pretended he was one of them. He always wondered if Robert remembered, if he ever made the connection once he knew Neil's face. Something about the wry look he gives Neil now makes Neil think he did know, makes him wonder if Robert hadn't in fact known all along.

"Not really. I'm keeping busy."

"Doing what? Writing your autobiography?" He points to the laptop that sits forgotten between them.

"Oh, fuck you." Robert laughs, no heat in his words. "It's a novel."

Seriously? It was just a stab in the dark. The idea that Robert is _actually writing a book_ seems completely foreign and weird, and Neil can't quite wrap his head around it. Doesn't mean he can't make fun of it. "Please tell me it's one of those superhero romance novels!" 

They've been popular for a while, ever since _Saved by Captain Excelsior_ hit no. 1 in all the bestseller listings. Now everyone and their wife is writing steamy love stories about steel-bodied heroes saving damsels in distress and quiet, nerdy guys redeeming villainous bad boys with the power of their love. The entire super community is making fun of the books, while none of them admit to ever reading one, even though Neil would bet a small fortune that there isn't a single cape or supervillain who doesn't have a bunch of them on their e-reader. 

He amuses himself with the concept of Robert Dalton, formerly known as Defender, spending his days now in coffee shops writing love stories whose protagonists are thinly-disguised versions of the people he used to fight with and against.

Robert huffs and deliberately blows the smoke into Neil's face until he can't hold back a cough. 

"Sorry to disappoint you, but it's sci-fi. Space-ships and foreign planets and alien societies."

"Huh." When he thinks about it, it makes sense that Robert would look at foreign worlds for inspiration. He seems pretty tired of this one. And Neil... he gets why. He feels a pang of the same weariness whenever he puts on his mask these days. Whenever one of the new heroes punches a little too viciously and fails to smile at his quips. Whenever the papers talk about the up-and-coming villains whose idea of a criminal master plan is blowing up a school bus or releasing a deadly virus. Whenever he remembers him and Defender fighting, fifteen years ago, trading blows and banter and quick, sharp grins.

Fuck, he misses those days.

"It sounds like your new life's working out quite well for you," he says. It's meant to be cutting and reproachful, but it comes out all wrong. Too soft, too sympathetic, too wistful. Neil wants to take back the words as soon as they'd left his tongue.

"Sure." Stabbing out his cigarette, Robert frowns a little. "Why are you asking? Thinking about giving retirement a try yourself?"

It could be a serious question or a snipe, and Neil fully intends to take it as the latter, to roll his eyes and brush it off and tell Robert that he has no intention of giving up the thrilling life of a supervillain and that Robert's deluded if he thinks he wants to. But something in the way those sharp blue eyes are looking at him draws the truth out despite himself. 

"Maybe," he finds himself admitting, against his best intentions.

He doesn't know why he expects Robert to laugh and mock him. Perhaps because he's learned to always expect the worst of people. Except this isn't just anyone – it's _Robert_. Bobby. Defender. The guy who spent their entire first fight gushing about how cool Fire Starter's powers were. Who once sent him an apology card and fucking _flowers_ to the hospital after Neil broke his leg during one of their fights in a dumb accident that hadn't even been Robert's fault to begin with. Who smiled at Neil when he asked for that stupid autograph and signed the front page of the paper, which featured a full-page photo of the two of them from their most recent clash, with _'Always be the best version of yourself! xxx'_.

And now here they are, in a coffee shop at 10 am on a grey Sunday morning, so much older and more tired, a knotted mess of history between them that's hard to untangle, and Robert is leaning back in his seat and looking at Neil with startlingly clear eyes, bright blue like a cloudless sky. 

The silence between them is heavy and stifling. It makes Neil want to run.

Before he can, Robert speaks. "Get us another coffee. Then we talk."

They've been talking for twenty minutes, but somehow, the way Robert says the word, he makes it mean _more_ , infuses layers upon layers of meaning into it. It's not quite innuendo, nothing as crass as that, but there's an implied intimacy that makes Neil flush. His eyes flit away. 

He tries to make light of the situation. "Why do I have to get coffee? I already bought you the last one," he argues.

"You're the one who made a fortune out of illicit business and crime. And as you used to be so fond of reminding me, superheroes don't get paid."

This time, Neil does roll his eyes. "Fine," he huffs. 

He gets them two Double Chocolate Lattes, and when he gets back to the table, Robert shuts the laptop and puts it away, and they talk. It feels like the start of something new.

End


End file.
